


Familiar

by Anonymous



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Animal Play, Animal Transformation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 18:59:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6126856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold takes in a stray cat that's more than it appears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Familiar

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you wychwood for beta!!
> 
> Animal harm warning: a mouse is killed in this story.

Harold catches sight of the glowing pair of eyes while giving the alley a last check before he unlocks the library door. They give him a turn, at first, the eerie reflection of passing headlights flashing in two tiny points beneath the dumpster, but then something else bothers him. He can’t easily bend down, these days, but he turns off the flashlight, puts it and his briefcase on the dirty sidewalk, and holds out his empty palms.

“Hello, there,” he says. “I’d like to have a look at you, if I may.”

The cat lets him approach, watching his every move. It’s a mangy thing, wet and dirty, its original colouring barely visible. Behind its eyes is a blank, mindless wall of fear - almost nothing human left. It may be too late to save him.

“Oh, dear,” Harold murmurs. “Who are you, I wonder? You’d better come inside. Come on, now.”

He holds the door open, and steps back from it, wondering for a moment if he has any food upstairs that he could use to tempt it inside. But after a moment, the cat shoots from the cover of the dumpster into the building like a dirty lightning-bolt. Once it’s inside, Harold shuts and locks the door behind him.

His back and hip ache in the cold and damp. Harold goes about checking his wards, then puts the kettle on to boil. When he goes out to look, the cat is nowhere to be found, hiding somewhere in the library.

“There’s something warm for you here,” he says. He leaves out a clean towel on the floor, and a bowl full of 3% milk warmed with a little hot water. It’s the best he can do in a pinch. He goes back to his computers, and ignores the little rustle and the rattle of the bowl. Several hours later, when he risks a quick glance, there’s a muddy print on the towel and the bowl is dry. 

*

On the second day, after an offering of a piece of fish and some dry bread, he sees the cat again. It freezes when he sees him, and they measure each other up. It’s dryer, and has obviously made an effort to clean itself, but it’s still grubby, and he can see its ribs through its fur.

“Would you like some help getting clean?” Harold says.

The cat watches him without sign of comprehension, and flinches when he opens his palm towards it. Harold murmurs a low chant of calling; nothing with any real compulsion to it - hedge-magic, really - but the cat comes closer, and closer, and finally stands, shivering, and allows Harold to rest his hand on its rigid back for a second.

“All right,” Harold says. “That’s better.”

Moving as slowly as he can, projecting every movement so as not to startle the cat, he turns on the kettle, and goes to get the basin he uses for washing cups.

Once he has a basin on the floor filled with skin-temperature water, several towels - he’s exhausted all his supplies, he’s going to have to do a laundry run - and a cushion on the cold floor for him to sit on, the cat is, of course, nowhere to be seen again.

“I’m leaving this here,” says Harold to the dark spaces between the stacks. “The water will be cold soon.”

Five minutes later, there’s a soft chirp behind him. The cat is standing next to the basin, one paw in the water. Harold sighs, and gets up from his chair with difficulty. 

*

The cat stands stoically and allows Harold to pour the water over it and rub it down with a cloth, building up a lather with the pet-safe shampoo he bought at the drugstore. It only flinches a few times, and hisses once, when Harold’s fingers find a wound in its shoulder - some days old, and already healing. The water runs brown and red into the basin as he rinses off the suds. It - he - still has some control over his animal self; a good sign. Harold takes the opportunity to talk to him, trying to match the cadence of his voice to the rhythm of the cloth in his hands.

“I won’t presume to tell you that you’re safe here, since I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re in. But I can assure you that I have no stake in whatever, or whoever, drove you here. I’m an independent agent.”

The cat is shivering miserably now, but stands still in the dirty water, obedient. Harold decides he’s done enough, and gestures toward the towel. The cat steps onto it hastily, and allows Harold to pat the worst of the water from his fur, which stands up in tufts. Harold is careful never to cover his face, or to constrict his movement in any way.

“I will protect you, to the best of my ability, and my abilities are quite extensive. There, do you think you can do the rest?”

He isn’t sure how much of what he’s saying is getting through. Human language can be the first thing to go. The cat bolts again when he turns to empty the basin. But the gruel Harold puts out for him disappears too, and the little morsel of cooked chicken set aside from Harold’s dinner. Harold sleeps in the library that night, on a camp bed he bought in a hardware store that day. He wakes in the middle of the night with the feeling of being watched.

“Hello?” he says into the darkness. There’s no response, and he sleeps uneasily, eventually, still feeling eyes upon him.

*

On the third day, the cat comes out in daylight, clean and almost presentable. He turns out to be a perfect tuxedo cat, white throat and belly, paws, and nose, and black everywhere else.

“My, aren’t you handsome,” Harold says, and the cat stares at him. “Forgive me, that was inappropriate. May I see your shoulder?”

He accompanies his words with a gesture - open palms, _come here, I won’t hurt you_ \- and the cat acquiesces, and allows Harold to look at his shoulder. He freezes when Harold touches him, and quakes under his hands, his ears flattening, his tail twitching. It must be taking phenomenal control to suppress his instincts to run.

“You’re doing very well,” Harold says quietly, as he probes the wound as gently as he can. It’s knitting by itself, but it looks painful. He could speed the process, but it’s risky, to perform magic on a body in this situation. Some herbs, maybe. He’ll look in his cupboard. For now, he needs a different kind of healing. He begins to stroke the cat’s spine from neck to tail, gentle, regular movements that the cat at first shrinks from, bending almost to the ground. He makes a noise, a distressed, rusty sound. Harold pauses, his palm resting on the base of his tail, until the cat straightens up a little, then he begins again. After a few minutes of gentle attention, the cat nudges at Harold’s hand with his head.

“Of course,” Harold says, and scratches behind his ears, the sides of his neck. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the cat begins to purr. “My name is Harold,” Harold says, almost mesmerized himself by the slow pass of his hand over the cat’s bony spine. “It’s nice to meet you.”

*

That night, Harold wakes again in the night, and lies there silently for a little while.

“You can come here, if you like,” he says presently, and a dry, cold nose nudges his hand. “I was sleeping,” he says. “There’s room for two, if you want to join me.” He pats the mattress beside him, feeling a little odd. The faint touch against his hand disappears, and he nearly drifts off again. Then soft paws press down the blankets beside him; close, but not touching. “Oh,” Harold yawns. “All right.” The soft, barely-there purring lulls him to sleep, like a white noise generator next to him.

*

On the morning of the fourth day, Harold wakes to find the cat still there next to him, regarding him quietly.

“Do you remember how you came here?” Harold says quietly. “You found me, in the alleyway. You had forgotten your name. Do you remember it now?”

The cat sits, and watches him, as if waiting for something else. Perhaps breakfast. Harold sighs, and goes to fetch it.

*

The cat seems to be recovering, because it jumps onto Harold’s desk and walks across his keyboard while he’s working, entering a line of gibberish into his neat code.

“That’s unnecessary,” Harold says. “Do you want something?”

The cat butts at his shoulder - getting cat hair on his suit, no doubt - and Harold tickles his head, scratches under his snowy white chin.

“There,” he says. “I want you to give careful thought to the question of your name today.”

“Mmrrp,” says the cat, and he neatly hops down from the desk - quite a height, actually - and saunters into the stacks, tail waving behind him.

*

On the fourth night, Harold wakes, briefly, to find a small, warm body nudging itself into the crook of his arm.

“You know, this probably isn’t a good idea,” he yawns. “We barely know each other.”

The cat’s purrs seem loud, so close to him, but it’s like having a small heat pack against his bad hip. Harold sleeps, and when he wakes up, he almost doesn’t hurt at all.

*

On the fifth day, there’s a skittering sound in the stacks, and the cat shoots out from between the shelves in pursuit of something. He leaps onto it, flips over with incredible agility, and comes out of the roll with a small, limp thing hanging from his mouth, still twitching. Then he _lets it go_ and pounces on it again with obvious enjoyment, tosses it over his head and catches it in his mouth.

“Oh God, stop it!” says Harold. “Just let the poor thing go, or kill it!” The cat shakes the mouse a few more times, then slinks over and drops it by Harold’s chair. It’s dead at last, thank goodness.

“I don’t approve of unnecessary violence.”

He doesn’t see the cat for the rest of the day. He supposes it’s sulking. When he goes to bed, there are two more dead mice on his pillow.

*

On the sixth day, the cat rolls onto his back on the mattress and shows Harold his soft, white belly. He twists around into a curve and looks up at Harold with a strange expression - sweet, almost pensive.

“Oh dear,” Harold says, helplessly, and sits down to rub his belly for just a moment - for five minutes, ten.

*

On the seventh morning, the cat licks his face, and Harold strokes him, and pets him, and tells him he’s handsome, and realizes he can’t put it off any longer. After breakfast, he goes out and buys two cups of strong coffee, and some other supplies. The cat pads up to him when he returns, and rubs his head against Harold’s ankles. Harold checks his wards, then sets some sage burning in a bowl and begins to walk the cardinal points, unplugging equipment, drawing runes for clarity, seeking, and protection. When he’s done everything he can do to build a shield for himself while he’s under, he drags the mattress into the middle of the room and sits on it. He used to use a chair for this, but lately he can’t trust his balance. 

“Mmrrrp?” the cat says.

“I hope you appreciate this,” Harold says, and lets himself rub the soft spot between his ears one last time. “Although I’m rather afraid that you won’t.” The cat settles on the towel Harold has put down for him - his favourite, and covered in hair by now - and watches with apparent curiosity. Harold closes his eyes, takes six deep breaths, and sends himself into a trance.

The library looks different from this viewpoint; the wards he’s set glow in the dark, and a few books stand out, larger than the others. His computers, lifeless now without power, retain a faint luminescence. The broken pieces of his staff, hidden in the Anthropology section, are still just visible, but Harold doesn’t want to look at them. He reaches out towards the cat, and lays his hand upon him - not in the physical plane, of course, but the _idea_ of touch is an important grounding element. The cat stirs slightly, but doesn’t wake. Harold steadies himself, and _reaches_.

He instantly finds that the situation is even worse than he feared. Layers and layers of wards and defenses, and as they take shape in his mind, his heart goes cold. Their form tells him a lot about the practitioner and who trained him, which, in turn, gives him a strong idea of what he’s running from. They’re pure military intelligence, and built with patience and even creativity, if hastily, and in great pain and sorrow. He ran in a hurry, but he was prepared. For a moment, Harold indulges in a wish that he could just hook John up to a computer and hack his defenses using code-spells; wetware isn’t really his preferred medium. With a mental sigh, he settles in for a long, difficult session, and gets to work.

*

When he comes back to himself, he has a pounding headache, and the shadows in the library have lengthened into dimness. Keeping his eyes closed, he slowly, painfully, stretches out his legs.

“John,” he croaks. “Your name is John Reese. Or at least, that’s the name you were using when you changed.”

He keeps his eyes closed for a few moments longer, then opens them, and breathes out. There’s a naked man lying curled up on the towel, his hair and beard unkempt, although Harold likes to think he doesn’t look as malnourished as he would have a week ago. He raps on the floorboards to get his attention, and the man’s eyes snap open. They’re blue. 

“I really wasn’t sure that I’d be able to get you out of there,” Harold says. He drags himself up, tosses a blanket in John’s direction, and manages to limp to the desk, where he’s left a pain potion and the two steaming cups of coffee - kept hot under a sigil, a waste of energy usually but he’s glad, now, that he thought of it. He knocks back the potion, takes a sip of coffee to blot out the taste, and takes the other one to John. John sits up, with slow, clumsy movements, and wraps the blanket around himself. He holds out his hand for coffee, but hisses when he immediately spills some on his bare wrist. His hands are shaking too much to hold it.

“Oh, let me,” says Harold, and holds the cup to his mouth, helps him to sip. “Things may come back slowly at first, but you should recover fully in a day or two. Can you speak?”

John shakes his head, then seems to notice his beard and hair. He fingers it, expressionless.

“There’s a bathroom with a shower down the hall,” Harold says. John gives him a look, and Harold feels his face heat. “Of course, you know that.”

John frowns, then, very slowly, rocks himself forward onto all fours, then shifts his weight onto his feet, and stands up. Harold is impressed, despite himself. Once he’s decided that he’s stable upright, John picks up the blanket, then, with a glance at Harold, the towel he’d been sleeping on. He pads on bare feet towards the bathroom. He’s extremely tall.

He re-emerges some time later, with his hair and beard dripping. Wordlessly, he hands Harold the safety razor that had been in the bathroom. His hands are still shaking far too much to use it safely.

“You should start trying to use words,” Harold says. “The longer you leave it, the more difficult it will be.”

John’s gaze is as blank and sardonic now as it was when he was a cat, but it’s a little more intimidating, given that he’s now over six feet tall. Harold meets his gaze, and doesn’t budge.

“Please,” John says, after a while. His voice is raspy, almost whispery. 

“I suppose that’ll do for now,” Harold says, and follows him to the makeshift bathroom. He cuts John’s hair and beard over the old utility sink, moving as slowly as he can with the sharp blades so close to John’s face. If he startles him now, John might change involuntarily. John watches his hands with absolute concentration. When he’s cut the beard down to a stubble, Harold pauses. “Would you prefer me to leave the rest until you can deal with it?”

John closes his eyes briefly. “No,” he says at last.

“All right,” Harold says. He shaves John carefully. His flushed, wet skin feels strange against Harold’s hands as he maps the new shape of his face with the blade. After he’s done, John feels his own face with equal bemusement. He really is handsome, as it turns out.

“Thanks,” he rasps. He looks at Harold. “Food?”

“You haven’t changed much,” Harold says, and goes to order them take-out.

*

On the seventh night, Harold lurches out of sleep. John is sitting on his haunches, watching him. 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Harold mutters, “Come here, then.”

John crawls in next to him, and butts his head against Harold’s shoulder. His hair is short and soft, and he’s wearing an old t-shirt of Harold’s that he found somewhere, and some sweatpants that are far too short for him. Harold will have to find him some clothes tomorrow, but he was far too tired after hours of deep trancework to even think about it.

“You’ll be very embarrassed about this, once you’re completely yourself again,” Harold murmurs, as he scratches the back of John’s neck and John wriggles against his side, clumsy and too big in his own skin. “So will I, probably.” 

John makes an inarticulate noise deep in his chest that sounds almost like a cough.

“I don’t think your vocal cords will do that anymore,” Harold yawns. “But I appreciate the thought. Are you able to sleep, now?”

“Here,” John mumbles into his side.

There’s a perfectly good air mattress down the hall, that Harold had brought in this morning. But he’s extremely tired, and he hurts all over. John is very warm.

“Oh, all right,” he says.

*

The eighth day starts badly. John is gone by the time Harold wakes up; he finds him sitting under the desk amid the dusty power cables. He watches Harold steadily as he moves around the room, renewing wards, switching on monitors. When Harold holds out a granola bar to him - the best he can do at the moment - John just looks at it. After he’s had his own breakfast, Harold takes the granola bar from its wrapper and puts it into John’s hand. He eats it sullenly.

“Do you feel well enough for a walk outside?” Harold says.

John ignores him.

“John,” Harold says sharply, with a sinking feeling.

“No,” John says.

“I suggest you do something you used to do as a human,” Harold says. “Something physical.”

John nods dully, and disappears into the library. Harold has second thoughts about the usefulness of his idea when John comes back with a towel and runs through a series of yoga stretches on it, most of which look rather cat-like. Harold returns to his neglected coding, but out of the corner of his eye, he can see John moving through the forms. Over the course of an hour or so, he seems to slowly return to a sense of where his own body begins and ends, and to a fluid strength which is really nothing like a cat at all, but is, somehow, comparable.

Finally, Harold turns off his monitors with a sigh.

“I’ll take you home with me, I think,” he says. John’s already seen his real home; the place where he sleeps seems a minor sacrifice in comparison, and he can’t quite bear the idea of another night on that mattress, especially since it’s really not big enough for two.

“Home?” John says, with a strange look on his face.

“John, this is a library,” Harold says gently.

John looks around, frowning, as if for the first time. He seems to register the computers on the desk, the shelves, and when he turns back to Harold there’s something new in his eyes; suspicion, perhaps, or curiosity.

“If we go out, we can get something to eat,” Harold says. He feels a little like that first night, trying to coax John out of the stacks with bits of fish. “Do you like pancakes? Eggs? Bacon? Ramen? Dosas? We’re in the middle of New York, you can have anything you want.” He pauses. “We could also get you some clothes. And shoes.”

John looks at his bare feet, and seems to think about this.

“Okay,” he says, at last.

“Perhaps I should go out first and buy you some flipflops, at least,” Harold says. John scrunches up his nose. It’s the first facial expression Harold has seen him make, and it reassures him slightly.

*

When they finally reach Harold’s apartment on the Lower East Side, that new wariness hasn’t left John’s eyes. He has a suit now, too, the best Harold could do at short notice, with a few shirts, two pairs of shoes, and running gear. If he decides to disappear on Harold tomorrow, at least he will be fully clothed. On the street and in the shops, in the restaurant, he had been alert, but not jumpy. Harold’s concerns would have been alleviated if he weren’t sure that John’s poise and control are the result of years of training and that he could probably function in public while drugged to the eyeballs. John still isn’t saying much beyond monosyllables, and he prowls around the apartment, checking the wards in a way that somehow gives the impression that he’d prefer to be smelling them, but is holding back for Harold’s benefit.

“There’s a spare room,” Harold says, gesturing, although John has already been into all the rooms. “You can sleep there, if you like.” He sits down with his laptop.

A few hours later, he resurfaces to find that it’s dark outside. He gets up, relieves himself, brushes his teeth. The apartment is silent. He walks into his bedroom and finds that John has pulled a pile of clothes from the dresser and is sleeping on them next to the heater. Was sleeping. His eyes are open now, watching Harold. He gets up on all fours, arches his back into a stretch, then crawls over to Harold, moves into his personal space as if it isn’t even there, and rubs his face against his thigh, curling his whole body around his legs. Harold freezes, involuntarily. During the day, being around other people, the… absent-mindedness he had cultivated about John’s physicality had evaporated, and now he’s very, very aware that he has a man on his knees in front of him, nuzzling at his hip. That this man slept in his bed with him last night.

“Stop that, please,” he says. “John, you can’t -” he licks his dry lips. “This isn’t appropriate. You know who you are, now. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

John throws him a sharp look from under his eyelashes; it’s barely there before his expression returns to that blank, guileless calm, but Harold knows he didn’t imagine it. He limps over to the bed and sits down. John crawls across the carpet and puts his head on Harold’s knee. Harold closes his eyes. It would be so easy, to take what John is offering. Whatever he is offering. Harold can’t pretend to himself that he doesn’t want it. But his suspicion has firmed into certainty that this is at least partly an act on John’s part, that John has fallen back on old habits, old defenses. He knows almost nothing about Harold, after all, while Harold knows almost everything about him.

“You’re through the most dangerous period,” he says, deliberately. “You won’t transform back involuntarily now. You may still feel some of the - the cat’s instincts, but you will be able to ignore them. I would recommend staying away from transformation as a defensive tactic for a while, and particularly from that shape. Your power must feel very drained, but it will come back, with food and rest. I’m sure you know that. Your training must have covered it.”

John has raised his head, and is watching him. “You’re welcome to stay with me, for as long as you like.” Harold tells him. “I’m well hidden from your former masters. While you’re with me, I can hide you from them.”

“Why?” he says, in that raspy voice.

Harold opens his hands, empty. _Come here, I won’t hurt you._ “I feel responsible for you.”

John puts his head back onto his knee. A section of Harold’s will power abruptly gives way, and he runs his fingers through the soft strands of John’s hair. John melts against him, a warm, pliable weight against his leg.

“If you want to sleep in my bed with me tonight, you’re going to have to do a little more to convince me that you’re fully sentient,” Harold says.

Without raising his head or moving at all that Harold can see, John blows up the nightstand. Well, perhaps ‘blows up’ is a slight exaggeration, but one moment the nightstand is whole and sound, the next moment it is - not. There’s no sound, just a shift in the corner of Harold’s perception, a sense of mis-alignment, then there’s a pile of wooden shards and sawdust next to the bed. The book that had been on the nightstand lies on the top of the pile, unharmed.

Harold clears his throat. “I’d be more impressed if you hadn’t just depleted all the resources you’ve been building up for the last week on that little display.”

He feels John smile against the fabric of his pants. “You’re still impressed, Harold.”

“Was that really necessary? That was a perfectly good nightstand.”

“You bought me a four thousand dollar suit today,” John says. “You can afford a new nightstand.”

He doesn’t press the point. To tell the truth, he _is_ a little impressed. He is scratching behind the ears of an extremely dangerous combat mage. It’s - intoxicating.

“So,” John murmurs, after a few more minutes of what can only be termed petting. “Do I get to sleep in your bed?”

“Yes,” Harold says, “Although I’m really not sure -” but then they’re up on the bed, and John is unbuttoning his shirt, nosing at his throat, nuzzling at the tender juncture of his shoulder and neck. It feels achingly good. “Oh,” he says weakly.

“Please,” John whispers, “please.”

“Yes,” Harold says, closing his eyes, letting the last of his reservations go. “Yes, John -”

John rubs up against him, the full length of him hard and strong against Harold. Harold undresses him, helps him out of the clothes he bought for him, and runs his hand over John’s naked skin as John blinks at him, eyes heavy-lidded. He leans down and kisses him. It’s clumsy, at first, as if John has forgotten how, but then he surges up against Harold and pulls him against him, strokes his tongue against Harold’s. He slides his hand up under Harold’s undershirt, and holds him close. 

Daring, Harold reaches down between them and wraps his palm around John’s hard cock. John breaks their kiss and gasps, and closes his eyes as Harold strokes him tentatively, then with more purpose. He doesn’t seem to be able to keep still; he squirms under Harold’s hands, and arches his back, stretching his body long on the bed, showing Harold his belly without seeming to realize what he’s doing. Harold kisses the soft skin of his stomach, and John makes that strange, low sound in his throat that means he’s trying to purr. He starts slightly. Harold looks up his body at his flushed face.

“Sorry,” John says. 

“It’s all right,” Harold says, and bends to kiss his stomach again. John turns his face to the pillow and takes a deep, shuddering breath. 

Harold senses that they are at a crossroads, that they could move in one direction or another; in one, they will never speak of it again. In the other - 

Harold runs his fingertips over John’s belly again, lightly scratching below his nipples, the trail of hair leading down to his groin. He doesn’t let himself think too hard about what he’s doing, only focusing on John’s needy sounds, the way he sighs under his hands.

“I liked it,” John rasps, “I liked being yours, Harold.”

Harold starts to stroke him again, mesmerized by the way John’s eyes flutter closed, by the fluid beading at the head of his cock. “Such a sweet boy,” he whispers, and John arches into his touch again, mouth open. “I think I’ll keep you.”

John comes silently into his hand in two or three hot pulses, then rolls onto his side and relaxes completely, going boneless and warm under Harold’s touch. It feels as if they are in a bubble, the world shrunk to a soft, warm enclosure of just the two of them. Harold strokes John’s sides, the base of his spine, his neck. 

“Perhaps I should buy a laser pointer to keep you entertained,” he murmurs. “What am I going to do with you?”

John yawns. “Got a mouse problem, Harold? I can take care of that for you. Or centipedes.”

Harold makes a face. “If you bring any more dead mice into my bed -”

John’s grin is startlingly beautiful, and also slightly unnerving. “That was a gift, Harold.” 

He shimmies down the bed and nuzzles his face into Harold’s crotch, effectively cutting short any rebuttal Harold might have had. Then he sucks Harold off, slowly, with Harold’s hand in his hair, John’s fingers rhythmically curling and uncurling against Harold’s thigh.

*

“What is it exactly that you do?” John says, looking over Harold’s shoulder at the list of names, the board with sigils marked next to pictures.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Harold says disapprovingly, as John picks up the file on Sylvia Robinson, aged sixty-five, and begins reading it.

John grins, eyebrows raised. “Satisfaction brought it back, Harold,” he says.

“I ought to carry a bottle to spray you with,” Harold says, and ignores John as he nuzzles at the nape of his neck, smiling.

*

On the hundred-and-fiftieth morning, Harold wakes with John nosing at his ear. Harold strokes him, and pets him, and tells him he’s a good, handsome boy. Then they get up, and go to work. It’s a good day.


End file.
